


Ship down

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [16]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Caretaker Steve, Flu, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sick Bucky Barnes, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 02:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12596396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky's hit hard with a flu bug, and it's not just his physical health that's left fractured.





	Ship down

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051

Bucky tries to focus on the fact that he’s only working a 4-hour shift today.  He can make it to noon.  He tries to hear the clock ticking, telling himself that every second that passes is a second closer to the time he can go home.  Never mind the fact that it’s currently only 9:30 and he’s already dying.

 

Bucky drops his forehead to his computer’s wrist cushion and hopes nobody decides to stroll past his cubicle and ask what’s wrong.  He’s not sure he can articulate exactly what he’s feeling, and the sore throat is only part of the problem. 

 

His fevered skin is freezing, despite the flannel shirt and sweater he’s bundled up in.  He whispers repeatedly under his breath the date, the GPS coordinates for DC, and a number of things meant to ground him in time and space.  He’s just sick.  He’s not going on ice or being tortured or blazing with infection after having his arm forcibly removed…  But the exhaustion and the fuzziness in his brain and the thrumming headache between his eyes leaves him less than positive he knows what’s happening.

 

By the time Bucky sits back upright and rides out the resulting wave of vertigo, he’s lost his place on the electronic form decorating his overly-bright computer screen.  He exits the task without saving, then re-opens the window to start over.  The neon white background of the PDF he’s filling out makes his eyes water.  Bucky blinks heard, then wipes the resulting warm saltwater drips with the edge of his sleeve. 

 

“Hey, anyone want Halloween candy?”  Darcy stands up from her post at the billing office’s front desk and shakes the plastic pumpkin bowl of chocolates.  It’s supposed to be for the VA’s patients, not the staff, but their office is so rarely visited it hardly matters. 

 

“James?  Want a kit kat?” 

 

Bucky doesn’t turn around; he just shakes his head.  The motion makes him dizzy, and he drops his forehead into his palm, welcoming the fall of his hair over his ears.

 

“You ok?”  Darcy asks the question Bucky’s least inclined to answer.

 

“Mm-hm,” He breathes.

 

“I got Excedrin if you need it,” Darcy offers.

 

“I’m alright,” Bucky forces out.  He sits up straight and looks at the clock in the corner of his monitor.  It’s just now 9:45.

 

By 11:00, nausea’s joined the mix.  Bucky’s long since abandoned actual work in favor of staring at the wood grain of his desk and swallowing the thick, milky saliva that keeps flooding into his mouth.  His feet are so cold he’s convinced hypothermia is going to set in. The tremor in his fingers makes it impossible to type.  Bucky can’t stand it anymore.  He needs to get out of here.  Not that falling apart at home is going to be any more comfortable.  It’ll just be more private. 

 

As soon as Darcy leaves for lunch, Bucky shuts down his workstation and stumbles out of the VA.  He can’t remember if someone’s supposed to drive him home.  They won’t be waiting, regardless.  Thank god for flex time that lets him leave early and make up his hours later.  Bucky decides he’ll just walk home, even though the trek is long.

 

The fresh air settles his stomach a bit, but redoubles his shivering.  Bucky’s ears are painfully frigid, and it only ups his headache.  Wintry sunlight makes his eyes water all over again, and Bucky’s almost weeping with relief when he finally comes to the grey painted front door of his and Steve’s townhouse. 

 

The door’s a bear to unlock with Bucky’s violent tremors and the iciness of the brass knob.  As soon as he’s inside, he ascends the stairs and curls on his side atop the neatly made bed.  “November 2017,” Bucky whispers.  “38.9072…”

 

He knows where he is.  He’s at home.  Breathing the scent of Steve’s soap out of the pillow under his face.  But the chattering of his teeth threatens to bring a gust of ice into his lungs as he’s sealed into storage, pumped full of cold and forced to do things and held far away, never to see Steve again…

 

Bucky’s stomach flips, and he’s searing hot for a moment before vomit’s spilling from his lips all over Steve’s side of the bed.  But then the aching coldness is back, and Bucky loops his arm over his head to conserve body heat, ignoring the fact that there’s more to throw up. His sleeve is sopping, as is the front of his shirt.  The liquid starts to cool as soon as the air hits it, and within minutes Bucky’s whimpering in frozen discomfort.  But he can’t move; he can’t get up or the cold will seep in and swallow him whole.  All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and draw his knees further up to his chest.

 

He must’ve fallen asleep because all of a sudden, noise brings him back to awareness.  “Buck?” A voice calls up the stairs.  Then there’s the loud pounding of footfalls.  “Oh my god.  Hey, you ok?” 

 

The edge of the mattress dips.  Bucky gags.  His eyes snap open and flails his arm at the intruder while also simultaneously trying to throw up and keep from throwing up.

 

“Hey, Buck, it’s me, ok?  It’s Steve.  You’re ok.  Breathe.”

 

Bucky’s disoriented.  He’s still so cold.  But sweat’s dampening his hair and his armpits.  Nausea threatens to unhinge his jaw, and his head throbs so strongly he can barely see without his vison rebounding in the same rhythm.  He hacks, and stars break out around the edges of his visual field. 

 

“Breathe,” Steve says again.  He places a gentle hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  “It’s ok.  I’m here.”

 

But it’s not ok.  He’s suspended between memory and reality, and both are horrendous.  He feels like hell; he’s about to pass out into a pool of his own vomit.

 

The light touch of Steve’s fingers comes to Bucky’s chin, then his cheek.  “You’re really burning up,” Steve whispers.  “Not feeling good huh?”

 

“S-so c-cold,” Bucky stutters, his teeth chattering and leftover spit and stomach contents bubbling at the corners of his mouth. 

 

“God, yeah, I know,” Steve says, bending forward to wrap Bucky in his arms, never mind the mess.  “But you’re home.  I’m here.  You’re just sick.  It’s gonna be ok.”

 

Reality sets in oddly, things come into focus out of order.  “Why’re you home?” Bucky croaks.  It’s light outside.  It has to be the middle of the day. 

 

“Sam was supposed to drive you home today, but he called me when he couldn’t find you or get you on the phone,” Steve replies, brushing damp, greasy hair out of Bucky’s face. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs.  “I just…I don’t know.”

 

“It’s ok,” Steve reminds him again.  “I’m just glad you’re safe.  No one’s gonna hurt you.”

 

Bucky takes it in for a moment. 

 

Then Steve asks, “You feel like maybe we could get you cleaned up?”

 

“Hm.  Yeah.  Ok,” he agrees.

 

Steve helps him disrobe and runs a warm bath.  He leaves Bucky there, trusting him not to drown while he starts a load of wash. 

 

An hour later, Bucky’s shivering under his wet hair, but otherwise warmly wrapped in a nest of blankets on top of the stripped mattress. Steve’s tried to take his temperature twice, but Bucky can’t hold the rod under his tongue without gagging. 

 

“It’s ok, I’ll get it later,” Steve says, dropping the thermometer onto the bedside table.  “Anything else I can get you?  I’m guessing you probably want to wait on meds…”

 

Bucky nods, ignoring the way his heartbeat swells into a throb he can feel in his temples and sinuses.  “Can you just…can you just stay?”

 

Steve perches on the edge of the bed, and Bucky curls close to his lap.  “Yeah,” Steve whispers.  “Yeah.  Always.”


End file.
